The Whale

by Lawrence Kelter

  Sam kept a straight face, but silently cursed himself for missing that. Rookie mistake.

  “Besides that…” He reached into his inside pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of printer paper, and handed it to Sam. A man in a hardhat had a chrome shovel in the ground at what appeared to be a groundbreaking ceremony. The man’s face was shaded and impossible to make out but a highlighted section of the caption read: Benefactor Peter Keys attends opening of the new Spur Tree Children’s Hospital in Jamaica. The article was three days old. “I guess there are two Peter Keys—the one who donates money and the one who steals it.”

  Sam was momentarily quiet while he tried to puzzle his way out the jam but no matter how he turned and twisted the pieces didn’t fit into place. He made a play anyway. “Anyone with a Photoshop program can slap that hunk of crap together in ten minutes.”

  “Nice try.”

  Sam shrugged with a confidence he didn’t feel. “I can talk my way around that article, no problem. That’s not worth ten cents.”

  “The hell it’s not.”

  “I guess we’ll see. So what’s this earthshattering information you possess?”

  Broadbend’s smarmy smile returned. “Abe Murray is jammed up and he doesn’t have the money he needs for your deal. That’s why I proposed he throw in with Atwater. He told Atwater he’s temporarily illiquid and needed him to cover him up to three million. He’s behind on his club dues and asked me to keep it quiet, which I did. He said he’d take care of me out of his end of your diamond deal. I checked around and found out that he’s up to his eyeballs in gambling debt to Vegas and the mob.”

  “Son of a bitch.” That made so much sense, Sam realized. No wonder he turned into a snake oil salesman the second he heard about the diamond mine. He’s desperate to find someone to stake him. I’ll bet he’s relying on profit from the mine to square his gambling debts. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Absolutely. See, I didn’t queer your deal. I saved it.”

  “Hmmm,” Sam unlocked the closet door.

  “Hey, what about our deal?”

  “All good things…” Sam replied.

  “I’m not a big fan of proverbs,” Broadbend said.

  “Well, isn’t that too bad. I’ll be in touch.” Sam walked away, across the lobby and out the front door.

  Fourteen

  “Thanks, Porter…Of course…I appreciate it.” Rachel disconnected from the call and turned to Sam. “He said he’ll check around for info on Michael Broadbend. He thinks he’s heard his name but it was one of those six-degrees-of-separation things.”

  “We don’t even know if that’s his real name.”

  “Porter’s checking for anyone working the University Club. I’ll snap a pic of pretty boy when I’m at the club tonight. I’ll send it to Porter and have him show it around.”

  “What are we going to do about the information on our whale’s gambling debt?”

  “Porter says we’re on our own as far as that goes. The East Coast is his thing, not Vegas. We’ve got two days before the sit down with the lawyers. I’ve got plenty of contacts on the strip. I can make it back and forth from here to Nevada with ease. How do we explain my absence to Mr. O’Rourke?”

  “We don’t—not until we can verify the information I received from Broadbend.” Sam sat down and flipped open his laptop. Rachel was quiet while he searched for flight availability. “I can get you out of Newark at six-thirty, and into McCarran Airport by nine-forty p.m.”

  “Book it. I can be downstairs and in a cab in fifteen minutes. Are you going back to the club tonight?”

  “No. I think I’ll stay in tonight and let Broadbend stew a little.”

  “Makes sense.” Rachel walked over to the closet and yanked a carry-on bag off the top shelf. “Something just dawned on me—did Broadbend tell you about the kind of scam he was planning to run on Murray?”

  Sam’s chin sank. “Duh. I was so worked up I forgot to cover that point. I guess I’m going back to the club after all.”

  “You think he’ll tell you?”

  “Of course he will—I’ll say okay to the half-million payoff.”

  “That’ll be the easiest money he’s ever made.”

  “I know. There’s only one fly in the ointment.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m going to lie.”

  Fifteen

  Sam sidled up to a group of gents talking about cigars and golf. He didn’t play golf and didn’t smoke cigars but wanted to see if he could make conversation with anyone about anything. Although he didn’t enjoy golf he certainly understood its allure, the bonding of players out on the links. Cigar smoking, however, that was an entirely different matter. At best cigars were foul smelling and acrid. He understood cigarettes and even used to smoke before he met Rachel. But a cigar was to a cigarette what a sip of wine was to diving into a pool full of Chianti. Still, he managed to hang with the group and even give them a couple of laughs while he waited for Broadbend to show himself at the club.

  Murray pointed at his simple Zippo lighter as Sam got a cherry coal going on his cigar. “Pretty provincial, Keyes.”

  Sam puffed some smoke and shrugged. “It’s reliable, and works as well in the bush as here in the club. Besides, it reminds me of where I came from.”

  “You said you were born to money.”

  “True, but my family wasn’t.”

  Murray and the rest of the group chuckled at his wit. Sam spotted Broadbend approaching them.

  “I believe you needed my assistance with something, sir,” Broadbend said, breaking into the group conversation.

  “Yes, I was hoping to find you.” Sam left the informal gathering with the gift of three very expensive cigars he’d never smoke. He followed Broadbend to the administration office, which was closed for the night. He switched on the lights and closed the door after Sam had entered. In contrast to the club itself, the offices were very austere and gave no indication as to the exclusive services the establishment provided to its members.

  “Do we have a deal?” Broadbend asked.

  “I’m working on it,” Sam said. “I’ve got to speak with my partners.”

  “Partners? You mean the blonde eye candy you’ve been sporting about? She’s a pro, isn’t she? Someone to help you work your marks?”

  “Ms. Riggs doesn’t play for pay, so there’s absolutely no way a weaselly pretty boy like you is going to win her favor. And yes, she’s one of my partners. There are others.”

  “If you say so. You’ve got two days before you go to the table with Murray and Atwater. I suggest that you and I get squared away on our end if you’re to have any chance of closing on your phony diamond mine.”

  “What makes you think it’s phony?”

  “You’re phony—that’s all I need to know.” He reached over and slid one of the expensive cigars out of Sam’s breast pocket and sniffed the aroma. “Don’t mind if I do.” He stuffed it into his own jacket pocket. “How long before you can confirm our deal?”

  “One of my partners is out of town and we don’t talk business over the phone—not business of this kind. We do it face to face. I’ll get back to you tomorrow night.”

  “Cutting it pretty close, aren’t you?”

  “You see me sweating?” Sam rolled secretary’s chair into position and plopped into it. “What was you plan for Abe Murray?”

  Broadband shrugged. “Simple extortion. His corporate board is made up of a bunch of tight ass real estate investors and bankers. How long do you think he’ll be able to control that board once they find out that he’s into the mob for eight figures?”

  Eight figures? Holy shit! “Not long. Does he have any idea that you were planning to squeeze him?”

  “Not yet. I mean I haven’t laid it on him yet but he’s intuitive. Why do you think he offered to reward me so handsomely—because he’s generous?” Broadbend smirked. “Abe Murray doesn’t even tip. It was a
pre-emptive strike, plain and simple. He’s buying time. He doesn’t want to be outed by me or measured for cement shoes by the mob. So, I guess you could say he sees the picture.”

  “How much were going to ask for?”

  “The same half million I’m getting from you. He’s on the balls of his big flabby ass and I don’t like to kick people when they’re down.”

  “You’re a real prince, Broadbend. Who told you about Murray’s gambling debt?”

  Broadbend shook his head with an indulgent smile. “Need to know basis, Mr. Keys, and you don’t need to know.”

  Sam checked his watch. The dial read Audemars Piguet but the watch was a fake. It was neither real gold nor Swiss made. The fact that it was a knockoff bothered him every time he checked the time. If he pulled off this score he’d buy a real one. He’d wash his hands of everything and everyone that was toxic to him.

  “Beginning with you,” he said out of nowhere, then he stood and left, leaving Broadbend to puzzle out his words.

  Sixteen

  Rachel was one of those travelers everyone envied. She boarded the jet looking fresh and alert, and deplaned looking even more clear-eyed and radiant. She didn’t eat or drink on the five-plus-hour flight. She fell sound asleep after takeoff and woke up just as the wheels hit the runway at McCarran Airport. She got into a cab and was at the entrance of the Lucky Dragon casino fifteen minutes later.

  Stanley Ng sat at the VIP baccarat table surrounded by walls adorned with gold and red velvet. He was betting heavily—a substantial stack of chips at his right hand evidenced the evening’s success. He’d come a long way from the days when he distributed cocaine out the back of his Chinatown noodle shop. He spotted Rachel at the door and signaled an okay to the host to allow her to enter. She sat down next to him and he slid twenty thousand in chips in front of her. “You bring me luck,” he said. Despite all of his wealth he’d never bothered to polish his spoken English. “Not feeling well—have running on the nose.”

  “You have a runny nose?” she asked.

  “That’s what I say, running on the nose. Feel lousy. Need to go home—take medicine—go to sleep.”

  “What do you take for that, rhino horn?”

  “Price of rhino horn go crazy—three hundred thousand dollars per horn. Me take Tylenol Cold and Flu. Much cheaper—work better.” He pointed at the table. “Make bet—one thousand minimum.”

  Rachel tossed a one thousand dollar chip on the table. She was no stranger to the baccarat table and won her first three hands doubling the bet each time.

  “You make seven thousand on a one thousand dollar bet. You lucky tonight—maybe you bet heavier.”

  “I’m not comfortable with that—it’s not my money.”

  “It’s okay. Stanley up forty grand tonight. I can afford to lose twenty. Bet it all—twenty-six thousand on the next hand. I already tell you I feel lousy. Want to go home.” He pushed all of her chips forward. “You win you keep five K.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “You come home with Stanley—walk on my back.” He peaked his eyebrows. “Naked.”

  “Sam wouldn’t like that.”

  Ng glanced around meaningfully. “I no see Sam. You here alone?”

  “Possibly,” she said in a wary tone.

  “Okay, relax. Concentrate on hand. Stanley know plenty girls to walk on back.”

  Rachel checked her cards, then examined the faces of the high rollers at the table. “Card,” she said.

  Ng commented, “Ballsy.”

  She smiled at him and turned over a nineteen.

  Ng’s eyes grew large. “Fifty-two thousand on my twenty thousand stake. You make thirty-two thousand in under five minutes. We go upstairs to your room and Stanley walk on your back.” He pushed five thousand in chips into her hand and cashed out.

  They stood up and left the table. “I need your help, Stanley.”

  “What kind of help you need, pretty lady?”

  “Information.”

  “Information? What I get in exchange?”

  She held up her chips. “This is all I have.”

  He folded her fingers around the chips. “No, you keep it. You bring Stanley good luck—make feel better.”

  “Then let me buy you a drink.”

  “Okay. Sure. You buy Stanley drink. We talk.” He ordered a Campari soda and she a vodka gimlet. He toasted. “To pretty gambling partner.”

  “Thank you, Stanley. Do you know a man named Abraham Murray?”

  “Abe Murray? Sure-sure. I know Abe. He lousy gambler—lose all the time—lose his shirt. Bets with heart, not with head. Like most men that never worked for their money.” He read her expression. “You don’t look surprised.”

  “Does he gamble here?”

  Ng sipped his drink. “Yes, yes. He gamble here. He gamble everywhere they give him credit. He big, big loser. Casino love Abe—he make minimum payment and they own his ass forever, just like loan shark.”

  “What would happen to him if he missed his payments?”

  “Just like loan shark—they make threats—scare him.”

  “And if he doesn’t pay up?”

  “He no use to them dead. They hurt him until he pays.”

  “Is it just the casinos?”

  “He wish. Fat boy Abe owes everyone. He owes the mob—all his friends.”

  “You, too?”

  Ng nodded. “Of course. He owe Stanley one hundred K. He always borrow from Peter to pay Paul. Can’t be late to Big Tony Bolla. You understand this?”

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  “So, why you so interested in fat Abe? He owe you, too?”

  Rachel lowered her gaze. “No.”

  “Oh, I see,” Ng said, smiling with revelation. “You running scam on him. Stanley hope you not invest too much on tricking old fat boy…he broke.”

  Seventeen

  O’Rourke had just come out of the bathroom and was modeling his new custom made business suit. “What do you think, sharp enough to impress to Ivy League jerk wad attorneys?”

  Rachel had taken the first flight home in the morning and had just gotten up from a nap. She lay on the sofa with an icepack pressed to her forehead. “Very impressive—I don’t know how either of them will be able to keep your eyes off you.”

  Sam was pacing back and forth. He didn’t respond to O’Rourke’s request for an opinion.

  “What about you?” O’Rourke asked. “I look good or what?”

  “I don’t like it,” Sam said.

  O’Rourke frowned. “The suit?”

  “Not the suit, Joe—the deal.” Rachel had called him the moment she’d verified Murray’s plight with Stanley Ng. The news had kept him up all night.

  “What do we care where the money comes from?” O’Rourke asked, having just learned of Murray’s issues. “Does it really matter that Murray is up to his eyeteeth in debt? So Atwater antes up the deposit, so what? His money is just as good.”

  “Don’t count your chickens until they’re hatched,” Rachel said. “That million dollar payday might be a good deal further off than you think.”

  “Meaning what?” O’Rourke asked angrily.

  “Meaning we don’t sit down at the table until both Sam and I are comfortable with all the details. If Sam’s worried, I’m worried. We’ve been burned before and with the stakes this high…” She swung her legs off the sofa and placed her bare feet on the carpet. Her expression was blank. “Tell me again, Sam, what are we worried about?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “But something is bugging me: Broadbend, Murray’s crushing debt, the goon who almost offed us in St. Louis, the sniper in Raleigh, the police, the feds, and let’s see…what else can we pile onto the top of this dodge?”

  Rachel walked over and rubbed his back. “Easy, babe, I know you’ve got a lot on your mind but seriously, are all those issues valid or are you just running scared? With the exception of Broadbend’s
involvement all the things you’re worried about were there before we started planning this scam—we never thought for a minute that they’d resolve themselves on their own. Murray’s problems are Murray’s problems, not ours. Let’s figure out how to handle Broadbend and we’re back to neutral.”

  “Offer him half,” O’Rourke said in a demanding voice. “Where’s his leverage? If he queers the deal with the two whales he gets nothing. Two-fifty is an awful lot of goddamn money just for keeping your mouth shut. He’ll take it. He’s pushy, not stupid.”

  “Maybe,” Sam said.

  “He’s got a point, Sam,” Rachel said. “Two-fifty for doing nothing is a hell of a lot smarter than five hundred for going to the time and trouble to out Murray in front of his board of directors. This way, he can stay put where he is at the club and keep his eyes open for additional opportunities. If he extorts half a mil from Murray he’ll have to hightail it out of there, pronto. Plus, who knows if Murray will even have the cheese to pay up? Two-fifty from us is the smarter play—hands down.”

  O’Rourke took off his suit jacket and sat down at the cocktail table to eat a sandwich. “Listen to the missus, Sam. She’s thinking straight—you’re not.”

  “What about the attorneys we’re meeting with, Joe? You check them out?”

  “Six ways to Sunday—employment records, the New York City Bar Association, their alma maters—you name it, I looked into it. Those sharks are exactly who they’re supposed to be. Rest easy.”

  Rachel’s cellphone rang. She recognized the number on the caller ID. “It’s Porter. Maybe he found out something about Broadbend.” She accepted the call. “Hi. Anything on Michael Broadbend? Uh-huh…”

  Sam was chomping at the bit. He walked over to where she was standing and stood mere inches away, anxious for news on the interloper who was interfering with their con.

  Rachel’s conversation was brief.

  “What’s the story?” Sam asked as soon as she hung up.

  “Bottom line, he wasn’t able to find out anything about anyone operating on the east coast named Michael Broadbend, but that’s not surprising. We assumed all along that Broadbend was an alias. He’s circulating the photo we sent him but hasn’t had any bites yet. He says there are dozens of young slick conmen running stings on the city’s high and mighty. He only knows about a handful of them.”